Embrace The Crazy…

“So what do you want in this year?” queries Middle Chicken. She’s taken me to the ladies only lunch haven in Scottsdale to celebrate my birthday.

“Health,” say I. I now believe the adage, “If you have your health you have everything.” Been there, done that. Healthy’s better.
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“I know that,” says she. “I mean, what do you want to accomplish? What do you want deep inside?”
duchess-diaries-crazy-bus
I tell her of projects skittering in and out of my brain and hit on a few feelings. “Peace, I guess,” I tell her.

“You don’t want peace. That’s not you.”

“What do you mean?” I’m thinking some inner peace and tranquility coupled with a healthy body sounds pretty good about now. Who is this child disputing and telling me what I want is not what I want?

“You’ve never wanted peace. People say world peace and that’s not good. If there actually was world peace, someone would fill that vacuum.” I nod. “But you? You don’t want peace, especially not inner peace.”

“Um, why not?”

“Even before Dad died, you were always in chaos. You love the crazy. You love a million kids around. You love having parties. Peace means being by yourself and going inward.” Okay, I think I’m following.

“You want what’s happened to you to stop. And what’s happened to you is that after dad died; you were thrown in the back of the bus with no seat belt, flying all around trying to survive. This past year, you’ve been not just in the back of the bus but unconscious in the back of the bus flying around.” She explains this as if she’s given it a lot of thought.

“What you really want is just to get back in the driver’s seat. You like driving the bus. That’s when you’re happy. You love your bus full of crazies. All your girlfriends and all the places you go and things you do. Drinking martinis together. Spending crazy time with the YaYas and meeting at the wine bar with The Goddess make you happy. What you want is the crazy back.”

An imaginary hand flips the switch on the light bulb perched above my head. At that very moment, in the middle of Sunday brunch, a Nora Jones song shared by The Norwegian and myself provides background music. We freeze. “Do you hear it?” she says.

One tear escapes and I nod. Both the song and the advice of a 25-year-old light the way. This year will find me no longer searching for calm, Zen and ever-elusive meditation. The answer is, indeed, to drive my own bus of crazies. Who knew?

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